A Superstitious Man
by Ruralstar
Summary: Owen is finally taking Cristina on their first date. They have a lot to talk about.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of ABC television, Shondra Rhimes and Company. No copyright infringement is intended.

A Superstitious Man: Part One

Owen Hunt was not a superstitious man in spite of the multitude of mini miracles he had witnessed in Iraq. Recoveries that would stun a layman only made him dig deeper to quantify the cause. There was _always_ a reason. He was a man of science and proofs, which made his deteriorating psyche difficult to accept but no less real. Consequently, Friday the thirteenth was no different than any other day. He got up from yet another restless night, showered, dressed and headed for the hospital. The ladder leaning against his neighbor's roof proved easier to go under than around due to the icy patches between his car and theirs. The dead black cat lying across the mouth of the driveway just another obstacle to be avoided as he backed onto the street. The three-car accident at the bottom of the highway off ramp was merely a delay when he stopped to assess the situation. The ambulance had already been dispatched and he would beat it back to the trauma center at Seattle Grace. The injuries were serious, but not life threatening.

He should have known better.

The accident victims kept Owen busy for the first two hours of his shift. He was focused, professional and inwardly pleased that the usually acerbic Alex Karev was on his service. He liked the younger man and hoped that his personal dalliances would not derail a promising career. Karev showed an aptitude for the rapid-fire assessments needed in trauma situations. He only lacked confidence and experience. Owen recognized a younger, less damaged form of himself in the Resident. Taking him in hand helped stave off the mental meanderings that frequently interrupted Owen's train of thought. The last accident victim had just been sent off to a hospital room when another more pleasant distraction walked into the trauma center.

The grapevine at Seattle Grace was impossible to ignore. Owen had struggled to remain above it for months. People like the well-meaning Callie Torres kept pulling him back down with an offhand comment or a knowing arch of an eyebrow. Consequently, he knew that Cristina Yang did not have the reputation of a peacemaker. One look at her posse of interns scampering like chickens amidst the slaughter proved the point. To say nothing of the daggers she had given him after Beth's arrival. None of that knowledge meant a wit to Owen whenever she crossed his path during the day. His back was to the door when she entered. He listened to her murmured conversations with one of the interns and suppressed a smile when she barked at the man for what she considered the obvious. Obvious only to a brilliant young surgeon who read more and tried harder than almost anyone Owen had ever met.

"Dr. Yang," he acknowledged without looking up from the chart he was writing in.

"Dr. Hunt." She read over his shoulder for a minute.

"You'll be ready for seven?" he asked casually, hoping that his nerves did not show.

"Unless something comes up, yes."

Owen nodded as he flipped the chart closed. He turned to find her standing with her arms loosely folded. She looked him up and down, a frown on her lips.

"What?" Owen prompted.

"I hope the food is good. You're too damn thin."

"Is that a medical opinion?"

"Look in a mirror once in a while."

Owen watched her walk out of the room, enjoying the view and trying hard to ignore the chill spreading through his weary frame. It was getting harder to maintain a state of normalcy even with the calm Cristina's presence induced. He had reached an understanding with her since Beth's departure. A clean slate that included the imminent do over of the first date he had so badly botched. She was watching him more closely now though, and her observations were accurate. Later was soon enough to consider his waning stamina and oversized clothes however. A wry smile touched Owen's lips as he walked out into the hall. Cristina Yang was as subtle as a brick to the head and twice as hard. Just one trait of many that drew him.

~*~*~

It was seven thirty when Owen finally parked his late 90s blue Mustang outside of Cristina's apartment. As predicted, an incoming trauma had held him up. She exited the building moments later holding a newspaper over her head to shield against the light drizzle. Owen smiled as she plopped into the front seat and grunted irritably beneath her breath. "You're late." She sniffed the air experimentally. "No detours this time?"

He ignored the jibe and shifted the car into gear. "I called ahead. They're holding our table."

"Good idea." She pushed back curls gone frizzy with the rain and studied his profile. "Ever consider losing the beard?"

"I never grew one until I...uh…I left the Army." He cleared his throat. "I'm used to it now."

"I was just curious."

Owen shrugged stiffly. "Have you ever had short hair?"

She smirked. "No."

"Good." 

"Why do you say that?" she asked as she slouched down in the leather seat and looked out the window from beneath lowered lashes.

"It looks good long."

"Thought you liked the back of my neck?"

"I like variety. Long hair on a woman adds a bit of mystery."

"Yeah, you need more mystery in your life."

He tilted his head, conceding the point. "Some mysteries are better than others."

They drove across town in an uneasy silence. There was no denying that Cristina was right, _again_. The biggest mystery of all being the person he had become since the ambush. Owen barely remembered the story he had told while standing fully clothed in the cold spray of her shower. One memory of horror was much like another. The edges blurred, the details so vivid they made his eyes burn and his throat clog with the glare and the smoke. Beth's arrival provoked a totally unexpected fit of panic. Owen clenched his jaw unconsciously as the sensation of Cristina's small arms pulling him close thrilled anew across his nerves. Her words were clinical and detached:her presence a comfort he had never expected. Cristina would shield him from the world but she would not let him hide from her. When he could finally stand erect, Owen could not bear to look at her. Embarrassed by his loss of control and scared to death that she would walk out the door and never look back. An hour later she made her choice and led him to the on-call room without a word of explanation. Lying in her lap, his sleep was deep and dreamless for the first time in months.

Owen rolled his shoulders at Cristina's quizzical look. She was not one to ask questions unlike the effervescent Beth. The teacher in Beth would not allow Owen to brood on any subject for an extended period of time. She would always ask and listen with almost inhuman patience to the answer even if it was clearly out of the realm of her experience. There was a time when he could tolerate that level of intrusion. See it for the intimacy is was meant to be. No longer.

Now he was stuck with a dull ache that turned his insides to molten jelly and closed his throat whenever he heard a car backfire. Crowds made him edgy and a whisper was as good as a scream to quicken his pulse until the blood roared in his ears. The man Cristina met the day of the ice storm would not have cared if she ever saw who he truly was. That Owen was forever on a search for adventure. Always at play, even when he grabbed a virtual stranger and kissed her senseless. A far cry from the man who stood in the darkened on-call room and begged Cristina to see inside his soul in a way no one from Before ever could.

"You okay?"

Owen forced his hands to relax their white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. "Yeah."

"Okay. So, where are we going?"

"Surprise."

"Uh…I'm not really big on those."

"You'll like it." Owen assured with more conviction than he actually felt.

"Not the lighthouse?"

"No."

Cristina reached over and pulled back the collar of his coat. "You got the Armani on under there?"

Owen chuckled.

"You owe me a sweater by the way."

"It shrank, didn't it?"

"I'm kidding."

"I'll buy you a new one."

"Never mind, stupid joke."

"I'll replace the sweater."

Cristina shook her head and looked back out the window. "Don't be an ass."

He concentrated on a group of pedestrians crossing the street, unsure what to say.

"You don't owe me a sweater, Owen. It's not like you dragged me into that shower."

"No?" The hazy recollection was solidifying rapidly the more they talked. She had asked the question earlier that day. For a brief, lucid moment he had wanted to answer, in spite of the liter of Scotch scorching through his veins by the time he knocked on her door. Cristina was a surgeon, she would appreciate the details. So he called her into the bathroom though he was already hip deep and sinking fast into a mire of sensations thick with blood and sand. The memory had spun out of control very quickly and taken him back to a frigid dawn years in the past. To the soldier screaming in fear, trembling in shock as his life leaked out beneath Owen's hands and limbs. "I think I might have," he whispered distantly.

Cristina's eyes rested on his cheek. She did not speak, merely watched him focusing on the road as he forced the ghosts back behind the walls.

"Tell me something happy, would you?" he muttered. "Tonight…it's not about that…"

Cristina laughed shortly. "I don't do happy."

"You do."

"You're pretty sure of yourself for someone who doesn't know much about me."

"And whose fault is that?" Her discomfiture was a palpable chilling of the air. For a moment Owen regretted the question and wanted to take it back. The feeling passed as he drew up to a traffic light. He looked over and caught Cristina's eyes. Holding fast until the flash of green in his periphery drew his attention back to the street.

"Happy is a sham, you know? Cliché, like a fairytale."

"Old and new, borrowed and blue?" he mused, thinking of the wedding adage and the dead cat lying across the driveway.

"Something like that."

"For other people?" Beth's face slid across Owen's vision. He blinked to clear the mirage and swallowed back the ache in his throat. She had spoken of their wedding day many times before he left on his last tour of duty. He had nodded and smiled, done everything expected. Then the world blew apart. _For other people…_

"Like Meredith. She wants all that crap. At least I think she does."

"And Derek?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"I don't know. Look, where are we going?"

"I told you, it's a surprise."

"Owen…"

"Just wait," he said with a tolerant smile. "You're not good at patience."

"You noticed?"

"Army training has its uses in the civilian world."

"So you said during the surgery with Campbell."

"People make mistakes."

Cristina sighed loudly. "Whatever."

She was not going to give an inch. Owen shook his head and let the subject drop. "Something happy?" he prompted eventually.

"Happy? Ummm, well, I've been reading Ellis Grey's journals."

"Who?"

"Meredith's mother. She was an Attending at the hospital." Cristina's voice took on a derisive edge. "Worked with Margaret Campbell actually. Anyway, I've been reading her journals…"

"Cristina," Owen guided the car into the lanes of traffic heading north of the city. "Something happy and not work related." She did not reply. After a few minutes Owen chanced a look at her face. The skin was painted an unearthly green by the dashboard lights. Drawn tight over a clamped jaw and flattened lips. "What?" he asked gently.

"Work makes me happy, Owen."

"There's more to life than work."

"And you would be an authority on that subject?"

He refused the bait and concentrated on exiting the highway and merging onto the secondary road pointed towards the west. The fading remnants of sunset painted the horizon in hues of dusty magenta and amber. Jagged shadows cut a razor's edge between sky and earth, split evenly by the silvery asphalt they traveled. Owen pushed down hard on the accelerator, making the Mustang roar and jump forward.

"You do a stint at Indianapolis in a past life?"

Owen shrugged dismissively.

The distant shadows gradually resolved into ghostly details picked out by the car's halogen headlights. Low crags dotted with scrub trees and sparse grass. The gleam of rocks washed clean by the wind and frequent rain. The white belly of a sea bird spinning up and away into the spreading darkness. Owen down shifted as the car climbed the increasing grade. The pavement at the summit gleamed blood red, kissed by the salted air and a lingering sun beam. Cristina gasped as they crested the hill and Owen drove the car into the pull-off to the right of the road.

The ocean lay before them. From this angle, sunset was rich red and gold slanting across the water. Frosted waves chased one another to the shore and pulled back to leave a beach encrusted with flotsam. Strands of seaweed, shells and stones textured the gray sand. Shallow pools mirrored thin clouds scudding across the sky. Tattered tails of pink and burnt orange streamed behind them as the last rays of daylight retreated into the sea. Owen sighed in relief. Ten minutes later and they would have missed the show.

Cristina was sitting forward in the seat. Her full lips formed a perfect 'O' of surprise. "It's amazing…really something," she whispered.

"It is."

Her hand came to rest light and warm on his thigh. "Do you come here often?" she asked, still looking at the changing view.

"I…used to."

The pressure on his leg increased. "Before?"

Owen nodded. Thankful that she was giving him space by focusing on the landscape and certain that she would sense if not see his affirmation.

"Maybe you should come here more often, now."

"Maybe." Owen fidgeted in his seat, feeling the need to say more and totally unprepared for what tumbled out of his mouth. "I never took Beth here."

"I didn't ask."

"I always came here alone, until now."

Cristina's dark head dipped towards her chest. "And what's changed? I mean…well you know what I mean."

He smiled shakily. Secretly relieved that she sounded as nervous as he felt by the turn their conversation had taken. _Time to lighten the mood! _"Let's find out."

"Surprise?" she said, the hand not straying from his leg.

"Yeah."

"You've no idea how much I hate those."

Owen shifted the car into gear and pulled back onto the road. They dropped down towards the beach, the pavement a darkening ribbon stitched with cracks and speckled with sand. He braked as it curved unexpectedly to the right and heard Cristina grunt as she landed against his shoulder.

"A little warning would be nice."

"You falling on top of me isn't something I want to avoid," he quipped, enjoying her snort of suppressed laughter.

"What the…" The pressure on his leg increased and then abruptly vanished as she sat forward for a second time in as many minutes. "What did you do?"

"Surprise."

**To be continued…**


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of ABC television, Shondra Rhimes and Company. No copyright infringement is intended.

A Superstitious Man part two

A mottled cliff stretched across the bottom of the road. To the right of the car, and well above the high tide line, a large canvas tent sat close against the base of the wall. The screened window in the panel facing the car glowed with flickering orange light. Thatched shadows danced across the dark sand with each gust of wind. The open door of the tent was partially shielded behind a hump of jagged stones alit by a brighter glow emanating from the interior. Owen nodded and waved to the driver of the small pick-up that drove past and accelerated with a throaty roar up the incline behind them.

"Our maitre de?"

Owen laughed. "Randy. He's a friend of mine."

"He set this up?"

"No, I did. He just came down to add the finishing touches and keep an eye on it for me."

Cristina turned to look at him. "When?"

"This morning."

"How? You were on at seven. I checked."

"You're checking up on me now?" He grinned and flinched away as she gave his shoulder a playful shove. "I'll have to remember that."

"Shut up." Her expression turned serious. "When do you sleep?"

"I think you already know the answer to that." Owen opened the car door and stepped out. He had no wish to discuss the nightmares. For once they had worked in his favor. The short night had given him the time to set up what he hoped would be a unique experience for Cristina.

Owen walked around the hood of the car, trailing his fingers over the warm metal. Cristina looked up through the window glass and waited for him to open the door. The sharp smells of salt and seaweed lay heavy on the wind. He sniffed deeply to clear his head and offered his hand. Cristina accepted the gesture with a faint smile. The act of standing propelled her into his loose embrace. Owen swallowed hard, dizzy with the sensation of her body suddenly warm and trembling within his grasp. Her wild black mane fanned his cheeks and filled his nostrils with the latent scents of rain and coconut. He bent and tenderly kissed her lips.

Cristina's hand slipped from his and rose up to meet its mate behind his neck. She stroked the smooth skin and stretched to nuzzle his throat and nibble a trail up to his ear.

In between sluggish heartbeats he had hoped for words. Verbal permission to surrender to the desires that had been building between them for months. Silence and the feel of her moist lips moving steadily along his jaw line would have to suffice. Owen turned and captured her mouth in a bruising kiss. Their tongues tangled together, dipping and tasting as their breathing quickened. Cristina's fingernails grazed his neck as her hands slid forward to work his collar. Owen's hands plunged into her hair, threading and winding the silky strands around his fingers. He moaned as she pressed her flat stomach against him and began to move in a languid rhythm. The slow, teasing strokes filled his body with exquisite heat. "Jesus…Cristina…"

She pressed harder as she unzipped his coat and started on the buttons of his shirt.

The skin of her throat was hot in Owen's mouth. He dragged his tongue up to her ear and suckled the lobe. She shuddered and forced her hands into his open shirt. Small fingers splayed across his chest and slid around to cup his shoulders. Owen gasped as she alternately stroked and kneaded the muscles. The scrape of her nails sent tendrils of pleasure racing the length of his aching limbs. He pushed her jacket back to expose more of her neck. Eager hands trailed down and snuck beneath the waistband of his jeans. Gentle strokes over the tops of his cheeks and then they were gliding lower and forward. Owen sucked in a startled breath and lifted her shirt. Impatient to caress the firm breasts pushing against the plumb-colored silk.

A large wave crashed into the cliff behind Cristina and raced up the sand. It hung suspended for a moment in the perfect picture of dappled foam churning between the scattered boulders and driftwood. Then the water pulled back, clattering over pebbles and debris in its haste to return to the open sea. Owen froze. The rattle of the stones overrode the roar of the retreating wave. Sharp and quick, not unlike the gunfire that reverberated across distant sands and into his dreams.

Passion drained away leaving impatience and understanding to mingle in Cristina's eyes. She touched his cheek and waited in silence as the images faded to the back of Owen's mind. He stuttered a sigh, suffused with bitter anger. "I'm sorry… I can't explain…"

"Stop apologizing." She reached down and caught both of his limp hands between hers. "You asked me to 'see you' here in the After so stop making that any harder than it has to be."

Owen's hands twisted to grasp her wrists. He kissed her forehead, resting his lips on the smooth skin for several seconds before straightening up.

"So what's for dinner, I'm starving!"

He laughed at the exclamation and spun around to lead her towards the tent. The bright, wavering glow spilling across the sand resolved itself into several candle lanterns and a portable hearth as they stepped inside. Owen's eyes skipped over the table set with black porcelain, silver candlesticks and flatware. A bottle of wine sat chilling in a bucket and a small baguette had been neatly sliced on a breadboard. The tantalizing aroma of smoked salmon chowder simmering over a sterno burner filled the relative calm of the canvas room. A bowl of salad greens, enhanced by colorful tomatoes and carrot curls, sat next to it. The finishing touch rested on a small table to the right of the doorway. The miniature cheesecake was adorned with strawberries and drizzled with satiny ribbons of dark chocolate. Owen nodded in appreciation of Randy's handiwork. He turned to Cristina and smiled tentatively. "Okay?"

"No one has ever done anything like this for me before."

Something in her voice gave him pause. Fear, concern, the sense that somehow she was not worthy of such a gesture—clouded her eyes to unreadable glass. After everything she had done in the last few weeks, Owen could think of no one on earth that deserved it more. He squeezed her fingers.

"Okay," she said.

They crossed to the table. Cristina looked uncomfortable but did not openly object when he pulled out her chair. Gestures of chivalry came naturally to Owen having been raised by a single mother with a secret fondness for romance novels. Sheila Hunt had carefully shielded her son from one of her more embarrassing guilty pleasures. He would not have found the stash of Harlequins at all if he had not been looking for a more secure place to hide his own collection of Playboy magazines. Under the stairs behind the ironing board she never used proved a popular spot.

"I don't do Valentine's Day."

Owen produced a lighter and lit the tapers on the table. "It's not the fourteenth," he noted casually.

"Close enough. Is this your way of getting around it?"

"It's my way of making amends." Bending down, he pushed aside the hem of the tablecloth and pulled out a flat, cream-colored box.

"Gifts?"

"So?"

Cristina grinned at the echo of his former self. Owen smiled in return and placed the box in her lap.

"I don't have anything…I mean I don't do this kind of thing…"

"You're here," he whispered fervently. "That's enough."

The grin faded to a shy expression of surprise as Cristina mouthed the word 'oh'. She ran a hand down the side of the box, releasing the flap and nudging the lid up. "They're beautiful," she said as she lifted out the bouquet of multi-colored roses tied with a silver ribbon.

Owen retrieved a vase from beneath the table. He was not superstitious and yet he had thought to pick every color save red. Red was intimacy, love, fairytales and dreams. Everything that seemed to make her squirm, everything he thought he had lost in one blazing moment. He took the flowers and cut off the ends with a knife before placing them in the vase and adding water from a jug. There was a time he lived in that world. With Beth there was the sweetness of summer sunshine that hid all manner of ugliness. He was her knight and she his damsel. That need to be a savior still lay deep within. Cristina had drawn it into the light on more than one occasion. She claimed to resent that part of him and Owen could not help a lingering sense of gratitude. He no longer had the strength to control the white charger. All too frequently he felt the hooves of his basic nature trampling his fragile psyche into the mire. The ghost of his After self could not be a savior, but it did recognize that Cristina's crusty exterior was a shield placed around a timid flame. She secretly craved what was nearly impossible for him to give. It was too soon to ask why, though her recent behavior made it hard not to wonder. Owen placed the flowers on the table and sat down.

"Give me your bowl," he said as he picked up a soup ladle.

"Smells great. Where did you get it?"

"I made it."

"You what?"

He chuckled beneath his breath, delighted that he had caught her off-guard _again._ "I do have some talents that don't involve scalpels and needles."

"So I noticed."

Owen ducked to hide the blush coloring his cheeks. Where would they be if not for the clatter of water swept rocks? He swallowed back the dryness in his mouth and filled her bowl with chowder. She accepted it and nodded at his offer of salad and then wine. Dishes full, he reached for his glass. Shadows lurked at the back of Cristina's eyes but she copied his gesture.

Owen drew a calming breath. "After," he said and lightly tapped his goblet to hers.

Cristina set the wine down without trying it.

Concerned, Owen put his glass aside and tried to catch her eye. "What?"

"What are you hoping to accomplish with this?" she blurted, small hands suddenly flung wide.

"I didn't come here with an agenda, Cristina."

"Men always have an agenda."

"Excuse me?"

"There are always strings. Expectations."

"You didn't complain earlier. If I hadn't…" He shook his head, mystified.

"I was listening in the bar the other night. I know what you're looking for and I thought I could deliver it or I wouldn't have kissed you back out there. But I told you, happiness is a sham and I can't pretend." Cristina pushed her chair away from the table. It fell over with a muffled thump on the canvas floor and she started for the door.

Owen caught her arm a step short of the sand. Anger and confusion tightened his grip as he pulled her around. Cristina did not wince though he could feel flesh and bone compressing between his fingers. Startled by the sensation, he released her and stepped across the open doorway to block further retreat. "I didn't bring you here expecting anything more than dinner and maybe a walk under the stars. We kissed and I don't regret it. I regret what came afterwards but you know that already. Why does this have to be so complicated?"

"Because you want to be around forty years from now."

"And that's a crime?"

Cristina folded her arms and met his quizzical stare with eyes gone flat. "I'm not cut out for plans like that and I won't lie to you. It wouldn't be fair."

The last words were tinged with regret. The first hints of a past he had never suspected and felt foolish for having overlooked. Owen dropped his eyes and sighed wearily. He could not deny the part of him that wanted to be there in the future. To tell her when it was the right time to lay her scalpel down and encourage her to be the teacher he was sure she could be. But that moment in the bar was about more than Cristina could easily understand.

Owen stepped back and bumped into the tent pole. He flinched self-consciously and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I wasn't asking anything of you," he said without looking up. "I want to live, Cris. For the first time since I left that fucking hell hole, I want to live. If you want to come along for the ride…" he swallowed audibly, "then I want you there. If not…I…I want to live, that's all."

"That's all?"

He glanced up at the echoed sentiment. The glow of the hearth reflected a dull fire in Cristina's unfocused gaze. Her arms hung loose at her sides, small hands clenched into tight fists.

"I thought I knew what I was getting into after the shower and your panic attack in the exam room. Even after Beth showed up, I thought I knew." Brown eyes met blue and an uneasy tremor thrilled across Owen's raw nerves. "And then you were back. You were a teacher and I was your student just like the first day you returned to the hospital. Do you know I actually went back to Margaret Campbell and told her how I would have done that procedure without a fluoroscope?"

Owen shook his head.

"I did and damn you both for being right. I went with you to the bar thinking…I don't know…thinking that I would be sitting with the same guy who couldn't see straight a week ago. Except you weren't that guy and that's a good thing. But it's not because now there are expectations and limits and…I won't do that with you."

_Deer in the headlights…_ Cliché as it might be, Owen could think of no more apt description for the woman standing in front of him. For the first time since they met, he saw panic in Cristina Yang. Gone were the harsh words and withering stares that sent her interns and peers alike scrambling for cover. Here she was naked and vulnerable to wraiths of a past she had evidently wanted to keep private. He could not feel guilty, however petty and small curiosity might be. His need to know was just as important as hers.

Biting back a curse, Owen crossed to stand in front of the hearth. He held his palms out towards the heat and gave her the protection of his turned back when he spoke. "I want to teach because knowledge is one of the few things I have left to give anyone. So, I teach and you and others learn. I am that person Cristina. Don't take it away from me." Owen glanced over his shoulder. He expected her to be gone and was surprised to find her looking directly at him. He nodded and turned back to the heat, wishing it would penetrate the chill between them. "The only thing I've ever asked from you personally is another chance after showing up a drunken fool at your apartment. Maybe it was more than I deserved. I'll let you be the judge of that."

"And professionally?" she prompted in a guarded tone as she stepped further into the room.

Owen groaned and shook his head. "What kind of a teacher would I be if I didn't expect you to excel?" It should have been obvious and yet there was more to the question. He turned around, keeping his features carefully neutral. "Professionally, I'll never ask more than you can give, Cristina."

"And how do you know my limits?" she demanded.

"I know what motivates you. You'll never stop running towards that goal and the line will always be moving back. You'll always be learning." He ventured a small smile. "Even forty years from now."

Cristina gestured to their cooling dinner and the flowers rustling in the stilted breeze from the window. "You don't know me, though I'll give you credit for trying." She changed direction and stepped towards the table. Gathering her jacket from the fallen chair, she paused to brush a finger across the petals of a yellow rose before turning back towards the door.

"Who was he?" Owen asked, following a hunch and hoping desperately that he was not wrong in spite of the pain it would cause her.

Cristina stopped. White fingers tightly gripping the brown leather jacket the only outward indication that he had hit a nerve.

Owen remained by the hearth and kept his voice low and steady. "No one talks about you at the hospital. Out of fear or respect I can't be sure which, and I really don't give a damn. But someone asked more of you than you were willing—or capable—of giving, didn't they?

The wind suddenly died away, creating a vacuum of silence broken only by the eerie creek of the leather in her grasp.

"What did he ask?"

Cristina's shoulders slumped and her free hand rose to cover her mouth. The fingers trembled ever so slightly.

"Who did he expect you to be?"

"You," she breathed, the hand falling to her side. Her voice was thick with emotion but her eyes were dry of tears when she turned around. "He never asked, he just expected me to be you. There was an accident and he was injured. Nerve damage. His hand would shake when he operated. I covered. Did procedures I didn't really understand because he wanted…because he needed me to be…"

"A savior," Owen concluded. The realization sucked the air from the tent, leaving him weak with outrage. He repressed the natural question of why and waited for more.

"I thought I loved him." Cristina murmured eventually. "I thought love was about becoming what he thought was the best version of me. He was a Cardio God and I couldn't get enough of that. Then suddenly he wasn't anymore and I was standing there in a wedding gown I hated, wondering what I should do. And he made the decision for me and I hated him for it and…loved him for it. Because I'm not that person and just when I was starting to get comfortable being alone…" A watery smile touched her lips. "Now you're here and forty years is a long time to pretend."

Owen struggled to process her words. He had not expected this bombshell and wondered idly if he had ever met the surgeon who had jilted her.

"Maybe you should take me home now."

He drew his hands from his pockets and met her eyes. Challenge, fear and finality rested there. She viewed her revelations as an ultimatum of sorts and he was free to walk away. Except he was not and Owen suspected she knew the truth even before he opened his mouth. "I've put you through a lot and none of it by conscious choice. But I'm not this other man." He closed the gap between them, grateful that she did not pull back. "Cristina, don't assume anything about me. Please."

"You're not the only one who feels like a ghost sometimes."

"I know." He wished she had said something sooner. That his mind had not been so completely subsumed by blood and ashes and therefore capable of discerning the signs. In the Before, he could be an arrogant bastard whenever he slid out from under Beth's velvet thumb. The level of self-involvement in the After had a queerly narcissistic quality to it. As if thinking beyond the dark little box of his ravaged brain was more than he wanted to consider—even if he had the fortitude to do so.

Owen reached out and lightly stroked her shoulder. The flesh beneath the silk was firm and still as a statue. "I don't want to take you home but I will, if that's what you want."

Days earlier, Cristina had worn the same expression as he begged her to see his true self in the darkened on-call room. Dusky lashes lowered, gaze focused on the floor as she listened. Then as now, time stretched out until each heartbeat made a distinctive thump in Owen's ears. He barely breathed until she looked up and smiled faintly.

"The soup's getting cold," she said.

Owen laughed nervously and moved to retake his seat as she righted her chair and sat down. He would eat icicles dusted in snow if it meant finally enjoying the evening he had planned for weeks.

Cristina tasted the wine. "Good choice."

"Let me heat up the chowder." He topped off both of their bowls and stirred in the fresh broth.

"You first."

"You don't trust me?"

Cristina rolled her eyes. "I don't know any man that cooks outside of a box."

Owen laughed again and spooned up the broth. "You do remember basic CPR and the Heimlich?"

"Oh that's reassuring."

He swallowed the bite of chowder and reached for a slice of bread. "Satisfied?"

"Smartass."

"So?"

Cristina's giggle was high and girlish. "You know how hard it was to keep a straight face the first time you said that?"

"When did I say it?"

"When you got out of the ambulance with the accident victim during the ice storm."

Owen nodded, too busy chewing to speak.

Cristina chased down a mouthful of salad with a sip of wine. "If I hadn't been so blown away by the pen Trach I think I would have lost it."

"First impressions." She smirked and Owen cocked a curious eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Oh that's not fair."

"Who said anything about fair," she teased before taking another spoonful of chowder.

"Cristina…"

"You have a hot ass, okay?"

Owen snorted soup and winced as the hot liquid burned his sinuses. He cleared his throat and blinked back tears of pain. Cristina dug into her salad, the glint of mischief in her eyes the only indication that she had noticed or appreciated his reaction.

_Two can play…_ Owen smiled secretively. He waited, spoon poised mid-air, knowing that she could not resist asking. The seconds crawled by and his stomach growled hungrily as he contemplated the chunk of salmon resting in the broth. _Good God, she has the patience of a saint…_

"Okay, what?" she finally muttered around a bite of bread.

"Do you remember stapling my leg?" He savored the fish and the warm flush her breathy laughter brought.

"You mean when _you_ stapled your leg?"

"The last two staples," he reminded, enjoying the quizzical wrinkle forming between her eyes.

"Yeah…"

"Your hair kept brushing up against my leg. Gash hurt like hell but all I could think of was how much I hated to see Callie Torres walk through that door."

"Guess it's a good thing my hair wasn't up that day."

"I guess those exam rooms need better locks!"

"That's what the on-call rooms are for."

"Taking lessons from Mark Sloan?"

Cristina snickered. "Seems like you're picking up more than you wanted to from the hospital rumor mill."

"Your roommate," he corrected with a weary sigh.

"Yeah, well, she's got too much time on her hands lately."

Owen nodded knowingly. He did not care about the tangled web that seemed to have ensnared nearly every Resident and Attending at Seattle Grace. The shift in conversation had relaxed the atmosphere between them however, so he asked questions. Learned, to his pleasure, that Cristina's curiosity and knowledge were carefully limited to the people she really cared about. She could talk trash with the best of them but her disdain was surgically placed precisely within the confines of who she wanted to be known as professionally. Margaret Campbell was not the only target. People like her made Cristina crazy with worries she found hard to articulate. She trusted few and it pleased Owen that he had apparently found a place close to the top of that short list. In between the entrée and dessert he ruminated on asking why and how that honor had been bestowed. The light in her eyes made him think better of it. It was easy to let paranoia creep in and ruin even the smallest moments. Seeing a genuine smile on her face filled him with peace.

They ate slices of cheesecake and had another glass of wine, then decided to take the walk he suggested earlier. The wind had calmed considerably during their meal and the sky was now a cloudless shroud of dimpled velvet. The distant glow of the Seattle skyline highlighted the broken ridge top to their left. Sounds of the restless ocean blocked out the echoes of the highway beyond. Cristina's hand fitted securely within his as they walked.

"There's something special about this place, isn't there?" she ventured when they stopped to study a hummock of rock lying low in the deep waters just off shore.

Owen breathed deeply and reached back to a time far preceding the shadows cast by the war. "I grew up in southern Maine. Spent a lot of time at the ocean. The coast there is rocky like this. We had beaches but they were…well different than what you see in California for example. A lot of cliffs and grottos with shorter stretches of open sand."

"So why come out here?"

"My father died in an accident when I was ten. Mom had a sister out here and no family except her mother-in-law left in Maine." Owen chuckled ruefully. "They didn't get along so we moved."

"You haven't been back?"

"No." He indicated the rock strewn beach and the cliffs rising behind them. "I found this place when I was sixteen. It was close enough." The last words were a lie Owen hoped she would not hear. After the discharge from the Army, he had strongly considered moving east. Easier to hide from the people of the Before, the places inhumed with adolescent joys. It had taken only a handful of days irradiated by nightmares to convince him otherwise. This beach had to suffice because the New England boy was long buried beneath a mountain of bloody sand.

"My mother lives in LA. We don't talk very much. It's better that way."

Owen nodded. Acknowledging the information but not asking her to elaborate. They walked a bit further and turned back towards the car by mutual, silent consent. The temperature had begun to drop and Cristina was shivering when they arrived at the tent site. The evening was coming to its natural end without a trace of the tension that had marred their arrival. Owen savored a small measure of satisfaction as he handed Cristina into the car and pulled out his cell phone. He intended to ask her back to his apartment for a night cap after he called Randy to clean up the debris of their date. The younger man had repaid the debt he owed to Owen in spades. The phone had been set to vibrate and Owen discovered a voice mail message as he sat down in the front seat of the Mustang. He grunted irritably and inserted the key into the ignition.

"What?"

He showed her the phone. "Sometimes my pager doesn't work out here. I had better check this in case it's the hospital."

Cristina shrugged.

The caller ID read 'private number'. Curious, Owen retrieved the message and raised the phone to his ear.

_"Owen…You said not to call this number, that it wouldn't work…Owen, please pick up. Where are you? Owen…"_

The world spun away into a cold, gray fog as the phone slipped from his nerveless fingers.

**To be continued…**


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Grey's Anatomy is the property of ABC television, Shondra Rhimes and Company. No copyright infringement is intended.

A Superstitious Man part three

Owen's right hand kneaded the denim covering his knee with jerky strokes. Intermittent tremors racked the left where it rested on the top of the steering wheel. He stared out through the windshield, drawing slow, uneven breaths that sent shivers tearing down Cristina's spine. She reached out and carefully plucked the phone from his lap. The words 'private number' caught her eye. She looked up, hoping for clarification but doubtful Owen was even aware of her presence.

"I can't believe…how could she do this?" The words seeped out in a disbelieving hiss.

"Owen, who left a message?"

The hand on the wheel curled into a fist and slammed against the door frame, making the Mustang shudder like an aspen in the breeze. Cristina pressed her back into the seat. Owen's ashen features were shiny with sweat. A low moan escaped his clamped jaws as he wrenched the door open and stumbled from the car. The roar of the incoming surf failed to muffle the sound of his retching somewhere in the darkness moments later.

Cristina stared at the phone resting in her palm. She wanted very much to throw it into the ocean and erase the last minute of time. Life was rarely fair, but why did it have to kick them both in the teeth at every opportunity?

It had not been easy to get beyond her innate suspicions and actually enjoy the evening. The Burke discussion seemed to spring from nowhere. She resented how it had been dragged into the light by the part of her that refused to lie silent. The new and improved Cristina Yang never knew exactly when to exercise discretion in place of blunt honesty. Like Beth Whitman, Preston Burke was a shade of the past that needed to find a voice. It rankled that neither ex-lover could be rationally discussed over a quiet drink. Instead, they were randomly inserted into the middle of otherwise pleasant exchanges. The introduction of her past coupled with the tension spawned by Owen's flashback, had Cristina ready to scrap the whole night. She stood in the doorway of the tent paralyzed with a variety of fears as she contemplated Owen's broad back. His candor kept her grounded. She gave him the option to end the evening with some dignity still intact. He declined and offered her the out he thought she deserved. Such generosity of spirit was unexpected from a man so obviously bereft of any sort of stability. She was appreciative and overwhelmed.

The creak of stressed plastic broke Cristina's reverie. Sighing loudly, she tossed the phone on the dashboard and stepped out into the cold breeze.

"Owen?"

"Here." His voice sounded unnaturally hoarse and weak. The car rocked against her leg and she turned to discover his silhouette leaning against the back bumper.

Cristina picked her way carefully across the beach to the tent. Inside it was nearly pitch black but she managed to find her way to the table. She pulled out the jug of water he had used for the flowers and found one of the wine goblets. On the way back to the car, she flushed out the wine and poured a fresh glass of water. He had not moved in the interim.

"It's water," she explained.

Owen's expression was unreadable in the thin starlight. He took the proffered glass, rinsed his mouth out and drained the rest of the water in two quick gulps.

Cristina set the goblet on the back seat of the car and returned to the bumper. She sat down close enough to feel the heat radiating through Owen's jacket. His nails clicked against the paint as his fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the trunk. Cristina folded her arms and steeled herself for what could happen. "Who was on the phone?"

The words fell like lead between them. "My mother."

"I thought she didn't …"

"She has my cell number." He shook his head. "I told her it didn't work…over there. That's why I called her regularly."

"She believed you?"

Owen's laugh was short and brittle. "The dutiful son doesn't lie, Cris."

Except Owen had lied and that fact was just one of many sucking the life out of him. Cristina recognized the importance of family, in spite of her limited personal success. Meredith's tangled past and the recent revelations about Derek's father proved how influential parents could be, even from beyond the grave. Owen's logic regarding his mother was decidedly skewed. "You're not doing her any favors," Cristina quietly observed.

"Excuse me?"

She sighed and looked out across the rippled sand now slowly lightening as moonlight crept over the cliffs. "She deserves to know you're home. Just like Beth deserved to know about Michael's cancer."

"She doesn't deserve this." Owen tapped a fist against his chest. "I can't do that to her."

"So what you're doing to her now, what you're going to do in the future, is better?"

"Yes." His voice took on an incredulous tone. "I can't believe you're asking me this."

"I can't believe you would let your mother continue to worry about you over there in…what did you call it? That 'fucking hell hole'? Let her worry that any minute you could get blown to pieces…"

"Stop it."

Cristina was suddenly filled with a sense of empathy for Owen's mother and an intense desire to make him understand what seemed so clear from outside his fractured bubble. She shook her head, determined to find the words no matter how strenuous his objections might become. "Nineteen mothers will never speak to their children again because they simply can't."

"Don't."

"There's nothing anyone can do to change that, Owen. But you have to realize that she's scared to death. That she wants you back safe and sound."

"I'm not 'sound' and you know that better than anyone."

"You are walking around, breathing, talking and even laughing."

"You expect me to stand in my mother's living room and pretend..."

"Not pretend," she interrupted calmly. "No, I expect you to be the man you are now. Let her see that man and let her find some part of that little boy who roamed the beaches in Maine."

Owen ducked away as the moon broke over the cliff and spread an apron of light across the sand. Its cold glow picked strips of russet and gold from his tousled hair. Cristina fought down an anxious shiver and moved to stand in front of him. Eyes like marbles stared back at her.

"I guarantee that a trace of that boy is still inside you somewhere. He became a man that says 'so' with that infuriating little grin. He likes to touch the back of my neck when he thinks no one is looking." She summoned a smile to soften her words. "He wants to be around forty years from now. That's who she'll see if you give her half a chance."

"And if she doesn't?"

Cristina was not one to touch without purpose. No one had ever wakened that urge in her the way Owen did. The dichotomy of who he wished to be in contrast to the man he had unwillingly been turned into was startling. The words were more than a question, her need to respond much deeper than platonic concern. She brushed a hand lightly against his cheek. Owen leaned into the touch, his eyes impossibly bright.

"She loves you," Cristina murmured fiercely. "Give her a chance to help you."

Owen turned away and walked down the beach. His shoulders were hunched, his head down as he kicked randomly at rubble on the ground. A hundred feet away, he stopped and stared up into the milky heavens pocked with stars. Seconds stretched into minutes as he scrubbed a hand through his hair and bent to gather stones and shells. He seemed to study them with great intensity and then suddenly threw them into the pounding waves. Something unintelligible—a curse, a plea, a sob—escaped him and ricocheted across the distance between them. He faced the ocean and let the wind whip his clothes and sear his face with salty spray. Cristina held her breath. Every sign pointed to a moment of dreadful release. When he finally turned and started back towards the car, the air escaped her in a great rush that set the world on edge. She leaned back on the bumper and folded her arms against the chill. Moments later Owen arrived and handed her the car keys.

He stared out at the frosted landscape without speaking as Cristina drove. It was decidedly unnerving to see a man normally consumed by nervous energy sitting completely still. "Beth called her?" she asked, desperate for a distraction as they merged onto the highway.

The lights of Seattle glittered in Owen's eyes. He nodded.

Anger was instinctive and struck with unexpected force. Cristina stepped down hard on the accelerator. The Mustang roared and sailed past a semi truck and a pair of SUVs. She hated the chunky blond with the creamy complexion and sad blue eyes. Could not conceive of how such naiveté and cruelty coexisted in the body of one person. Beth Whitman was undoubtedly the teacher every child would remember from elementary school. Sugar sweet, unfailingly cheerful and sympathetic no matter how unruly her students might be. What would those students think if they knew what Beth had done to someone she claimed to love?

Cristina's foot eased up on the gas as she pulled in behind a mini van. Somewhere in the back of her mind lurked a highly probable thought that filled her with a different kind of fury. In spite of Owen's abrupt dissolution of their engagement, Beth was capable of giving him the benefit of the doubt. She could reach out to Owen's mother out of concern as opposed to malice. In exercising that ability to forgive, she might have done the Hunt family a favor by forcing the reunion Owen so obviously feared. Cristina cringed inwardly at the idea that either of them could be beholding to such a hypocrite. She could feel Owen's eyes resting on her cheek. That intense gaze which could make her chafe with indignation or burn with desires she had forgotten even existed. Presently, she felt neither. Only pity he would resent and compassion she did not know how to channel, even if he could accept it.

She drove back to her apartment. Only faintly disturbed by the knowledge that she still did not know where he lived. Owen did not offer an alternative. He followed her out of the parking garage and across the street with hands stuffed deep into jacket pockets. The wind was stiff and unseasonably sharp as it howled between the buildings. Cristina fumbled for her keys at the door, the click of his chattering teeth making her jump. The hard plastic of Owen's cell phone rolled under her fingers when she pulled the keys free. Nodding to herself, she ushered him into the hallway and up the stairs to the second floor. The realization that Callie was on-call occurred as she opened the door to her apartment. Cristina bit back a weary sigh of relief and followed Owen inside.

Their evening had taken on a comfortable quality before the voice mail. She suspected that a nightcap would have been offered and she wondered at the wisdom of it now. Owen could easily drain a bottle of liquor without batting an eyelash in his current state. Not a good idea as the remains of an excellent dinner lay somewhere on his secret beach. Cristina went into the living room and turned on a single lamp. Shining just enough light to make navigation easy but lend the comfort of shadows to any ensuing conversation. She moved a sweater and a catalogue off the couch and offered Owen the TV remote. "Have a seat. I'll make some coffee."

He stared at the rectangle of plastic as if it were a foreign object not meant to be handled. Then took it and sank down onto the edge of the couch.

Cristina turned away before he could see the apprehension she knew showed all too plainly. She felt like a hostess in a restaurant. As if he was a complete stranger and not the man who could make her hot with just a glance the length of a crowded hallway. She wandered into the kitchen and made the coffee on auto pilot. On a whim, she took out two slices of bread and toasted it.

Five minutes later she returned to the living room. Owen did not look up as she set the saucer of toast on the table in front of him. She handed him a mug of coffee and sat down on the couch, close but not touching his leg. His back was military straight, every line in his shadowed face cut deep with strain. He clutched the mug and did not seem to notice the heat of the porcelain. "Do you have my cell?"

Cristina retrieved it from her jacket and handed it over.

Owen set the coffee to one side and cradled the phone in his palm for a long time. Clouded blue eyes jumped around the room, alighting on pictures, books and furniture in quick succession. He cleared his throat and turned to her. The appraisal was customarily intense yet curious, and just a little scared. Cristina pushed her feelings of discomfort aside and donned what she hoped was a reassuring expression. Looking away, he flipped open the phone, pressed several buttons and then set it on the table.

"_Owen…You said not to call this number, that it wouldn't work…Owen, please pick up. Where are you? I spoke to Beth…Beth Whitman… She said she saw you at a hospital here in Seattle. She said you worked there and that you've been home…Home for months…I…don't understand, son. Please… pick up the phone…I don't understand why she would say…you're… You told me…" _Sheila Hunt's voice ended abruptly.

Owen reached out and tapped the speaker button. "Damnit…damn, damn, damn…Beth didn't have to do this," he whispered jaggedly. "My mother didn't need to find out this way."

_My mother didn't need to find out at all…_ The addendum hung in the air between them. Cristina swallowed back the lump in her throat. She had not expected him to share the message, nor the surge of emotion his distress would cause in her. It was one more indication of what she feared—and wanted—more than she cared to admit. Love was a dangerous animal, especially in its purest form.

"She didn't say it but I'm sure Beth told her exactly where I work." He raked a hand through his hair and let it rest on the back of his neck.

Cristina watched his fingers twitch beneath the short hairs covering the nape. Grasping and kneading the flesh until it flared an angry pink. She reached up and gently guided the hand back down to rest flat on his thigh. "Beth has taken the decision of_ if_ you should speak to your mother out of your hands. _When_ is all you have left." She pressed her palm onto the back of his hand. "Do you really want her surprising you at the hospital?" Memories of Owen's volatile reaction to the Whitmans flashed through Cristina's mind and found a mirror in the sharp gaze he directed at her. "I didn't think so."

"I'm not ready to do this, Cristina." He looked down at their hands. "It never occurred to me that Beth would tell her. This is…well, it's anightmare."

"No, the crap in your head is the nightmare. This is family."

"Same thing?"

"Yeah, maybe."

Owen laughed softly and leaned over. A moment's hesitation and then his lips brushed a chaste kiss just below Cristina's ear. "Thanks," he whispered.

Her skin prickled with welcome heat as he exhaled. "Don't mention it."

Owen sat up and smiled tiredly. "I think not mentioning things has been part of the problem for a long time now. I need to start somewhere."

Cristina nodded.

"Will you come with me when I go to see her?"

"Yes," she answered without hesitation.

The smile reached Owen's eyes, lifting the shadows and bringing the barest of lights. He glanced down at his watch and chuckled. "12:12, it's over."

"What?"

"Friday the thirteenth."

Cristina rolled her eyes. "You've got to be kidding me. You don't believe all that nonsense, do you?"

Owen shifted closer and eased his arm around her waist in a loose yet possessive embrace. His eyes wandered slowly across her face, taking in every curve and line before meeting her curious gaze. "Not anymore."

Cristina wondered if he ever did or if the events of the evening had been the catalyst for superstitions never consciously recognized. The end result was clear in any case and she would not give him another reason to reevaluate. Snaking both arms around Owen's neck, she kissed him. The passion of earlier had cooled to embers of comfort and promise. She tasted the sweetness of the future as his lips moved over hers and his free hand caressed her back. Pleasurable shivers of anticipation not entirely connected to the growing ache in her groin crackled across Cristina's nerves. She broke contact and arched her neck, eager to grant him access to the one place she knew he loved to touch. Owen laughed breathily and she reveled in the warmth of his smile pressed against her skin. Maybe, just maybe, she did do Valentine's Day.

~THE~END~


End file.
